


sharing breath and victories

by youcouldmakealife



Series: no expectation of returns [7]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 15:08:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1351885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I really want to fuck you right now,” Gabe says, low, directly into Stephen’s ear, probably barely audible to Stephen over the thump of the bass, swallowed up in the blaring room. It’s still out there.</p>
<p>“You are so drunk,” Stephen repeats, none of the teasing left in his voice, the words barely steady.</p>
<p>“I really want to fuck you all the time,” Gabe says, too honest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sharing breath and victories

Things are weird. There isn’t any other way to describe them. Stephen vacillates between trying to be as helpful as possible--cooking, cursing at the dishwasher when he actually tries to clean up after himself, sneaking into Gabe’s room to grab his laundry--and trying to be unobtrusive, like Gabe’ll order him out if he’s around too much, so that Gabe’s got clean dishes and clean underwear and decent food and Stephen hiding in his room. 

It’s weird, it’s downright un-Stephenlike, at least when it comes to his usual behaviour towards Gabe, but Gabe recognises it. He’s seen Stephen trying to atone with Anouk and Johan, and it looks a lot like this, so this must be Stephen apologetic, Stephen trying to make things right. Gabe finds it endearing despite himself, can’t hold onto the threads of anger when Stephen keeps looking at him so hopefully every time he washes a dish or attempts some meal they grew up on, and eventually Stephen’s hiding in his room less, knee knocking against Gabe’s on the couch when Gabe crashes on it exhausted after another long day, not saying much, just taking up the space that Gabe’s unconsciously left for him.

They don’t talk. Or, they do, Stephen updates him on Toronto, the Petersens’ current going-ons, hell, the Marksons’ current going-ons, since he’s seen Gabe’s parents a lot more than Gabe has, lately. He breaks down the North Stars’ play with Gabe over breakfast, or updates Gabe on local, national, international news because Gabe doesn’t have the time to watch it. They talk. They just don’t talk about that night, Stephen turning tail and running the next day, for an appointment with timing that couldn’t have been coincidental, that gave him an excuse to run the second Gabe thought he might be brave. They don’t talk about it, and Gabe wants to, but he also has to 100% commit to the playoffs right now, can’t have anything distract him, not even Stephen. They made it last year, but bowed out in the second round, and the team’s getting old, they can’t go out easy this time, when another chance might not arrive. In optimistic moments, he thinks Stephen understands that, is just trying to be helpful in one more way. In realistic moments, he _knows_ Stephen understands. He also knows Stephen not talking about that night has nothing to do with that at all.

*

Gabe doesn’t know if it was the obsessive training, the obsessive breakdown of the North Stars’ weaknesses, or maybe just the fact that they’re a first seed team playing a team that barely scraped into the playoffs, but they win both their games at home with an ease that’s almost suspicious. The North Stars aren’t even putting up a fight, unless you count a shitload of stupid penalties and a handful of gloves dropped, but Gabe doesn’t, not when the Canucks are converting those idiotic penalties into power play goals. 

Gabe gets to notch one of them in game two, and there’s nothing like this crowd, especially during the playoffs, the whole city as hungry for it as he is, maybe hungrier, so tired of being a contender and always falling short. For Gabe this is new, but for these fans, it’s an old, sad story. They’re trying to change it, though. They can’t rewrite history, but they can nudge the direction of the narrative.

They go to Minnesota confident but not cocky, an attitude drilled into their heads endlessly by their coach, their management--the fucking _papers_ , like they have any deep personal insight to share with a team of veterans that have played more rounds of the playoffs than some entire franchises have reached. It’s harder for Gabe and some of the younger guys not to let it affect them, but they had a breezy first round last year, too, and the second one crushed the fucking breath out of them, so he considers himself duly warned.

The attitude works, or maybe just their play, because they go home to Vancouver with another game in hand and a close loss. No one’s saying anything yet, no one’s going to be the guy who jinxes it, but everyone heads home exhausted and with smiles tugging at the corners of their mouths. 

It’s a completely unholy hour, but Stephen’s up anyway, puttering around the kitchen in a way Gabe’s gotten used to, making messes that Gabe doesn’t mind cleaning up, trying to blow his hair out of his eyes because his hands are covered in flour. Gabe comes over after dropping his bag, tucks Stephen’s hair behind his ear after a moment of hesitation.

Stephen smiles at him, crooked. “One more,” he says.

“Dude,” Gabe says, aghast.

Stephen rolls his eyes. “You’re not superstitious,” he says.

“Playoffs,” Gabe retorts.

“Yeah, I know,” Stephen says, smile dimming slightly, and Gabe’s reminded that they’re not the only team that won tonight. The Pens nudged to an identical 3-1 series lead right before the Canucks hit the ice, despite a long list of injured players that Stephen’s still on, and will be until he officially retires.

“What’re you making me?” Gabe asks. “At ass-o-clock in the morning.”

“Who says this is for you?” Stephen asks, smile tipping back into full, which is all Gabe wanted. That and to kiss the corner of his mouth where it’s tugging up, but that’s the kind of want that Gabe learned to live with a long time ago. “Go to bed, superstar.”

_Come with me_ , Gabe wants to say, and doesn’t. Instead he squeezes Stephen’s shoulder and leaves him to it, goes to sleep the sleep of the exhausted and fulfilled, knowing --and trying not to know--that it won’t last.

*

It isn’t a rout, but it isn’t really a contest either. The North Stars don’t even get one past the goal line, it’s all Vancouver, a roaring crowd, the bench leaping out and scrambling to join him on the ice when time expires and they finish up three goals, up three games, Gabe snorting laughter as Kurmazov presses a sloppy kiss to his cheek and mumbles something half in Russian about beautiful, ugly goals while they wait impatiently in the ‘thank your beautiful, beautiful goalie’ line, because no one earned it more than Garmin, who closed it out on a shutout, whose smile is visible from fucking space, and who takes his head taps and hugs like they’re his due, because they totally are.

Pittsburgh clinched their series right before Vancouver took the ice, but other than that, no one’s looking at less than six, minimum, so there’s time off, not to sit back, exactly, but when everyone starts talking about celebratory drinks, management, down in the room with them for once, is all indulgent smiles, even when Xavier starts talking about getting Garmin a shot for every save--a figure that would inevitably lead to alcohol poisoning--and then starts giggling at his own accidental pun.

Management apparently booked the VIP section of a club not too far from Rogers Arena, clearly a little less superstitious than the room, and they all head out in trickles of twos and threes, meet up there, where Gabe gets crushing hugs from guys he’d seen twenty minutes before, gets two shots in his hands and then in his belly before he can even find somewhere to sit down. He ends up half in Kurmazov’s lap, practically shoulder to shoulder with Kurmazov’s fiance Oksana, who is also half in Kurmazov’s lap, and who kisses him on the cheek exactly like Kurmazov did, and then laughs and wipes her lipstick off his skin while Kurmazov is busy bellowing for more shots, an arm around them both.

Oksana was the first one in, must’ve met up with Kurmazov on the way to the club, but soon some more of the wives and girlfriends pop up, all happy to ruffle Gabe’s hair like he’s a kid and compliment him on his goal. Xavier’s girlfriend throws out a challenge to meet her shot for shot, which Gabe totally wimps out on, because he’s heard stories, and those would be enough, even if he didn’t already know you don’t mess with French Canadians when bets come around. He’s already having a hard enough time trying to keep up with Oksana, who is practically pocket sized and apparently has an iron stomach. She scares him a little.

Stephen texted him with a congratulations, along with Gabe’s parents, the entire Petersen clan, and what appears to be half the population of Toronto; too many texts to read, much less respond to. But when girls Gabe doesn’t recognize trickle into the crowded, euphoric room, the single guys having popped down to the main club and apparently totally taken advantage of the fact that as far as Vancouver is concerned, they are kings for the night, Gabe pulls out his phone to find Stephen’s number, sends out _come celebrate!!_ , along with the name of the club.

Stephen doesn’t answer until after Oksana tries to push another shot in his hand, and Kurmazov ruthlessly mocks him when he feebly fends her off and switches to beer because he doesn’t want to feel like death tomorrow. _how drunk r u rite now?_ Stephen sends.

_Kurmazov fiance Russian_ , Gabe sends, which he figures is answer enough. 

_wow just like K who wud have guessed?!_ Stephen sends back, and then _ok I am coming to save you from yourself bc you are slurring thru text_

_am not_ , Gabe replies, but it’s probably a good thing he’s switching to beer, even if the Russians are mocking him. 

Gabe’s finished his first beer and started on the next when Stephen’s making his way over, pale hair visible like a beacon even in the dim room. 

“Petersen!” Kurmazov says. “Sit, there is room on my lap!”

Stephen rolls his eyes, smiling, sits down when Gabe makes what little room he can for him, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, lets Oksana talk him into a shot, and then another, because he clearly has not learned from Gabe’s mistakes.

“Ugly ass goal,” Stephen says, when Kurmazov and Oksana have wandered off to dance and presumably goad other feeble Canadians into alcohol poisoning. 

“It did its job,” Gabe says smugly, and Stephen snorts, knocks his shoulder against Gabe’s, leaning in when Gabe throws an arm around him.

“You are so drunk right now,” Stephen says in a conspiratorial tone, mouth close enough to Gabe’s ear that Gabe can feel his breath, so that he shivers in the too hot room. 

Gabe turns his head, almost banging his nose into Stephen’s, before Stephen pulls back a bit, grinning at him, teeth white, hair still lit up, the prettiest person in a room full of girls who could be supermodels if they wanted. He suspects he says that out loud, because Stephen’s grin widens, a little mocking but mostly pleased, and Gabe leans in, lips brushing the shell of Stephen’s ear.

“I really want to fuck you right now,” Gabe says, low, directly into Stephen’s ear, probably barely audible to Stephen over the thump of the bass, swallowed up in the blaring room. It’s still out there.

“You are so drunk,” Stephen repeats, none of the teasing left in his voice, the words barely steady.

“I really want to fuck you all the time,” Gabe says, too honest. 

“Dude, think about where we are,” Stephen says, finally.

“No one can hear me,” Gabe says. He can barely hear Stephen. He can barely hear _himself_. “Come back with me.”

“Where else would I go?” Stephen asks, smiling, but it’s sort of tremulous, and that breaks through the confidence that Gabe’s been carrying since they clinched, the confidence that’s grown with every drink he’s had.

“If you don’t want to--” he starts. 

“Let’s go,” Stephen says, which isn’t an answer, not really, but Stephen doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to, would demand best three out of five, then five out of seven on rock-paper-scissors to avoid playing video games Gabe always kicked his ass at. He does a shot, then another, from where they’re sitting on the table. Gabe stares at him.

“What,” Stephen asks. “Like I could catch up with you if I tried.” 

Liquid courage doesn’t last long, Gabe knows that well, and maybe they shouldn’t be doing this, not drunk, not in the lull between rounds, he knows that just as well, but he wants this, and he’s been waiting, he’s been patient, but it’s hard, sharing space and lives and never, ever talking about it, knowing almost everything about Stephen except what he fucking _wants_. 

They catch a cab, the driver clearly recognizing Gabe, telling him what a beautiful goal he had, that he caught it on his phone because no one in the city was going anywhere while the game was on, while Stephen snorts derisively beside him--it really was an ugly goal--until Gabe elbows him in the ribs, light. 

The house is dark when they make it inside, the porch light dimly illuminating the hall, and it’s quiet for the first time all day, so quiet Gabe can hear his own heartbeat, Stephen’s breathing. He’s frozen by it for a moment, that quiet--it’s so much harder to do anything, to say anything, than it was in a club so noisy you couldn’t hear yourself think. Stephen’s mostly in shadow, a shape in the darkness. Gabe could see him with his eyes shut if he had to.

Gabe’s about to break the silence, doesn’t know what he’d say, really, maybe that he’s tired, that he’s drunk and not to listen to a thing he said, disclaiming words with words, because they haven’t done anyone much good lately, when Stephen kisses him. He tastes like top shelf vodka, another reminder that this isn’t the best idea, but Gabe doesn’t care, has been trying so hard to do everything right, when this is the thing he wants, Stephen’s mouth against his, Stephen’s hair brushing against his cheek, against his fingers when he reaches a hand up to tuck it back, a habit engrained years ago when Stephen started growing it out. It’s quiet enough that he can hear them kissing as much as he can feel it, the soft, slick sound when Stephen pulls back, just enough that Gabe has to chase his mouth again. He feels desperate in the way that only Stephen’s ever been able to make him, but it’s chaste, like they’re teenagers all over again, except when they were teenagers, Gabe was desperate to get a hand in Stephen’s pants, and right now this is enough, palm flat against Stephen’s back so he can hear the frantic beat of Stephen’s heart beneath his hand, echoed in the pulse of his own pounding in his ears.

They make it upstairs without stopping, really, the dark house familiar in its own way, turn into Gabe’s room, until Gabe’s spread out flat on the unmade bed, Stephen’s body bracketing his, bracing himself one handed until his arm starts to shake, a minute tremor that Gabe can feel work its way through him, through them both. Gabe nudges at Stephen until they’re on their sides, and the kisses slow, until Gabe’s spending more time sharing breath with Stephen, because he’s exhausted, he’s been exhausted for as long as he can remember, and it’s hitting him now, the full weight of it, with Stephen’s breath in his mouth and the fingers of Stephen’s good hand light against his jaw. 

He falls asleep between one kiss and the next, must, because he wakes up to daylight, still fully dressed and totally alone. He sits up, feels a dull panic work through him, muted by the throb of his head, the way his mouth feels sore, raw. He manages to change into a t-shirt and sweats on autopilot, wants to delay walking out of this room if Stephen’s not there, wants to know. Doesn’t know what he wants, other than to have woken up still breathing Stephen’s breath.

He’s made it down to the kitchen, the house echoing silent around him, and he’s just started stabbing at the coffee maker when the front door closes, Stephen wandering into the kitchen with a tray of drinks, not looking surprised when he sees Gabe, like he knew that’s where he would be. 

“Got you coffee,” Stephen says, and Gabe takes it, takes a sip. It’s some sugary sweet flavoured latte, the kind Gabe loves, notes of cinnamon under the sweet, enough wipe away the cottonmouth.

“Last night,” Gabe says, after a few slow sips, and Stephen finishes a sip of his own coffee, probably black, the kind he could make as easy here, but picks up when he’s making up some new sugary concoction for Gabe to guiltily try.

“Pens still did it first,” Stephen says, a tilt of his mouth like mocking. Like avoiding the subject, but Gabe’s so relieved that he’s still here, left but came back with a syrupy sweet offering, that he can’t even be annoyed. It’s not a good time, he knows this, as much as he doesn’t want to. He needs to concentrate, and Stephen could break that concentration on a whim if he wanted to.

They’ve got time. That’s something they’ve always had. Gabe’s got the offseason coming up, hopefully later rather than sooner, and Stephen’s got--well, Stephen’s got the time. So instead of pushing it, Gabe just takes another sip of his latte, knocks his hip against Stephen’s companionably, smiling into his cup when Stephen knocks his right back.


End file.
